E 

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Lincoln 



THE COUNSEL 
ASSIGNED 




MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS 

Author of "The Perfect Tribute" 




(lass 
Book. 



PRESENTED BY 



THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 



BY MARY R. S. ANDREWS 

JOY IN THE MORNING 

THE ETERNAL FEMININE 

AUGUST FIRST 

THE ETERNAL. MASCULINE 

THE MILITANTS 

BOB AND THE GUIDES 

CROSSES OF WAR 

HER COUNTRY 

OLD GLORY 

THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

THE COURAGE OF THE COMMONPLACE 

THE LIFTED BANDAGE 

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 




BUT LINCOLN STOOD GUARD 



THE 

COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

BY 

Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews 

Author of " The Perfect Tribute," etc 



NEW YORK 
Charles Scribner's Sons 
1920 



Copyright, 1912, by Charles Scribner's Sons 
Published March, 1912 



■P v 



1Sj£*J 




THE COUNSEL 
ASSIGNED 

AVERY old man told the story. 
Some twenty years ago, on a 
night in March, he walked 
down the bright hallway of a hotel 
in Bermuda, a splendid old fellow, 
straight and tall; an old man of a 
haughty, high-bridged Roman nose, 
of hawklike, brilliant eyes, of a thick 
thatch of white hair; a distinguished 
person, a personage, to the least ob- 
serving; not unconscious possibly, as 
he stalked serenely toward the office, 
of the eyes that followed. An Ameri- 
can stood close as the older man 
lighted his cigar at the office lamp; 
a red book was in his hand. 
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"That's a pretty color," the old fel- 
low said in the assured tone of one 
who had always found his smallest 
remarks worth while. 

The American handed it to him. As 
he turned over the leaves he com- 
mented with the same free certainty 
of words, and then the two fell to 
talking. Cigars in hand they strolled 
out on the veranda hanging over the 
blue waters of the bay, which rolled 
up unceasing music. There was a 
dance; a band played in the ball- 
room; girls in light dresses and of- 
ficers in the scarlet jackets or the 
blue and gold of the British army 
and navy poured past. 

The old man gazed at them vaguely 

and smiled as one might at a field of 

wind-blown daisies, and talked on. 

He told of events, travels, advent- 

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ures — experiences which had made 
up an important and interesting life 
— a life spent partly, it appeared, in 
the United States, partly in Canada, 
where he was now a member of the 
Dominion Parliament. His enthusi- 
asm, it developed, was for his pro- 
fession, the law. The hesitating, deep 
voice lost its weakness, the dark eyes 
flashed youthfully, as he spoke of 
great lawyers, of legal esprit de corps. 
"It's nonsense" — the big, thin, 
scholarly fist banged the chair arm 
— "this theory that the law tends to 
make men sordid. I'm not denying 
that there are bad lawyers. The Lord 
has given into each man's hand the 
ultimate shaping of his career; what- 
ever the work, he can grasp it by its 
bigness or its pettiness, according to 
his nature. Doctors look after men's 
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THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

bodies and parsons after their souls; 
there's an opinion that lawyers are 
created to keep an eye on the purses. 
But it seems to me" — the bright old 
eyes gazed off into the scented dark- 
ness of the southern night — "it seems 
to me otherwise. It seems to me that 
the right lawyer, with his mind 
trained into a clean, flexible instru- 
ment, as it should be, has his spe- 
cialty in both fields. I am a very old 
man; I have seen many fine deeds 
done on the earth, and I can say that 
I have not known either heroic phy- 
sicians or saintly ministers of God go 
beyond what I've known of men of 

my own calling. In fact " 

The bright end of the cigar burned 

a red hole in the velvet darkness, the 

old man's Roman profile cut against 

the lighted window, and he was si- 

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lent. He went on in his slow, author- 
itative voice: 

"In fact, I may say that the finest 
deed I've known was the performance 
of a lawyer acting in his professional 
capacity." 

With that he told this story: 

The chairman of the county com- 
mittee stopped at the open door of 
the office. The nominee for Congress 
was deep in a letter, and, unpreten- 
tious as were the ways of the man, 
one considered his convenience; one 
did not interrupt. The chairman 
halted and, waiting, regarded at 
leisure the face frowning over the 
paper. A vision came to him, in a 
flash, of mountain cliffs he had seen 
— rocky, impregnable, unchangeable; 
seamed with fines of outer weather 
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THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

and inner torment; lonely and grim, 
yet lovely with gentle things that 
grow and bloom. This man's face 
was like that; it stood for stern up- 
rightness; it shifted and changed as 
easily as the shadows change across 
ferns and young birches on a crag; 
deep within were mines of priceless 
things. Not so definitely, but yet so 
shaped, the simile came to the chair- 
man; he had an admiration for his 
Congressional candidate. 

The candidate folded the letter and 
put it in his pocket; he swung about 
in his office chair. "Sorry to keep you 
waiting, Tom. I was trying to figure 
out how a man can be in two places 
at once." 

"If you get it, let me know," the 
other threw back. "We've a use for 
that trick right now. You're wanted 
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THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

to make another speech Friday 
night." 

The big man in the chair crossed his 
long legs and looked at his manager 
meditatively. "I didn't get it quite 
figured," he said slowly. "That's my 
trouble. I can't make the speech here 
Friday." 

"Can't make — your speech! You 
don't mean that. You're joking. Oh 
I see — of course you're joking." 

The man in the chair shook his 
head. "Not a bit of it." He got up 
and began to stride about the room 
with long, lounging steps. The chair- 
man, excited at the mere suggestion 
of failure in the much-advertised 
speech, flung remonstrances after 
him. 

"Cartright is doing too well — he's 
giving deuced good talk, and he's at 
[7] 



THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

it every minute; he might beat us yet 
you know; it won't do to waste a 
chance — election's too near. Cart- 
right's swearing that you're an athe- 
ist and an aristocrat — you've got to 
knock that out." 

The large figure stopped short, and 
a queer smile twisted the big mouth 
and shone in the keen, visionary 
eyes. "An atheist and an aristo- 
crat!" he repeated. "The Lord help 
me!" 

Then he sat down and for ten min- 
utes talked a vivid flood of words. At 
the end of ten minutes the listener 
had no doubts as to the nominee's 
interest in the fight, or his power to 
win it. The harsh, deep voice stopped; 
there was a pause which held, from 
some undercurrent of feeling, a dra- 
matic quality. 

[8] 



THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

"We'll win!" he cried. "We'll win, 
and without the Friday speech. I 
can't tell you why, Tom, and I'd 
rather not be asked, but I can't make 
that speech here Friday." The candi- 
date had concluded — and it was con- 
cluded. 

Travelling in those days was not a 
luxurious business. There were few 
railways; one drove or rode, or one 
walked. The candidate was poor, 
almost as day laborers are poor 
now. Friday morning at daybreak 
his tall figure stepped through the 
silent streets of the western city be- 
fore the earliest risers were about. 
He swung along the roads, through 
woodland and open country, moving 
rapidly and with the tireless ease of 
strong, accustomed muscles. He went 
through villages. Once a woman busy 
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THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

with her cows gave him a cup of 
warm milk. Once he sat down on a 
log and ate food from a package 
wrapped in paper, which he took 
from his pocket. Except for those 
times he did not stop, and nine 
o'clock found him on the outskirts 
of a straggling town, twenty miles 
from his starting-point. 

The court-house was a wooden build- 
ing with a cupola, with a front ver- 
anda of Doric pillars. The door stood 
wide to the summer morning. Court 
was already in session. The place 
was crowded, for there was to be a 
murder trial to-day. The Congres- 
sional candidate, unnoticed, stepped 
inside and sat by the door in the last 
row of seats. 

It was a crude interior of white 

walls, of unpainted woodwork, of 

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pine floors and wooden benches. 
The Franklin stove which heated it 
in winter stood there yet, its open 
mouth showing dead ashes of the 
last March fire; its yards of stove- 
pipe ran a zigzag overhead. The 
newcomer glanced about at this 
stage-setting as if familiar with the 
type. A larceny case was being tried. 
The man listened closely and seemed 
to study lawyers and Judge; he was 
interested in the comments of the 
people near him. The case being 
ended, another was called. A man 
was to be tried this time for assault; 
the stranger in the back seat missed 
no word. This case, too, came to a 
close. The District Attorney rose and 
moved the trial of John Wilson for 
murder. 

There was a stir through the court- 
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THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

room, and people turned on the 
hard benches and faced toward the 
front door, the one entrance. In the 
doorway appeared the Sheriff lead- 
ing a childish figure, a boy of fif- 
teen dressed in poor, home-made 
clothes, with a conspicuous bright 
head of golden hair. He was pale, 
desperately frightened; his eyes gazed 
on the floor. Through the packed 
crowd the Sheriff brought this shrink- 
ing, halting creature till he stood be- 
fore the Judge inside the bar. The 
Judge, a young man, faced the crim- 
inal, and there was a pause. It seemed 
to the stranger, watching from his 
seat by the door, that the Judge was 
steadying himself against a pitiful 
sight. 
At length: "Have you counsel?" 
the Judge demanded. 

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A shudder shook the slim shoul- 
ders; there was no other answer. 

The Judge repeated the question, 
in no unkind manner. "Have you a 
lawyer?" he asked. 

The lad's lips moved a minute be- 
fore one heard anything; then he 
brought out, "I dunno — what that 



is." 



"A lawyer is a man to see that you 
get your rights. Have you a law- 
yer?" 

The lad shook his unkempt yellow 
head. "No. I dunno — anybody. I 
hain't got — money — to pay." 

"Do you wish the court to assign 
you counsel?" He was unconscious 
that the familiar technical terms 
were an unknown tongue to the 
lad gasping before him. With that, 
through the stillness came a sound 

[13] 



THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

of a boot that scraped the floor. 
The man in the back seat rose, 
slouched forward, stood before the 
Judge. 

"May it please your Honor," he 
said, "I am a lawyer. I should be 
glad to act as counsel for the de- 
fence." 

The Judge looked at him a mo- 
ment; there was something uncom- 
mon in this loose-hung figure tower- 
ing inches above six feet; there was 
power. The Judge looked at him. 
"What is your name?" he asked. 

The man answered quietly: "Abra- 
ham Lincoln." 

A few men here and there glanced 
at the big lawyer again; this was 
the person who was running for 
Congress. That was all. A tall, gaunt 
man, in common clothes gave his 
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name. Frontier farmers and back- 
woodsmen in homespun jeans, some 
of them with buckskin breeches, 
most in their shirt-sleeves, women 
in calico and sunbonnets, sat about 
and listened. Nobody saw more. No- 
body dreamed that the name spoken 
and heard was to fill one of the great 
places in history. 

The Judge, who had lived in large 
towns and learned to classify hu- 
manity a bit, alone placed the law- 
yer as outside the endless procession 
of the average. Moreover, he had 
heard of him. "I know your name, 
Mr. Lincoln; I shall be glad to as- 
sign you to defend the prisoner," he 
answered. 

The jury was drawn. Man after 
man, giving his name, and, being 
questioned by the District Attor- 

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THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

ney, came under the scrutiny of the 
deep eyes under the overhanging 
brows — eyes keen, dreamy, sad, hu- 
morous; man after man, those eyes 
of Lincoln's sought out the char- 
acter of each. But he challenged no 
one. The District Attorney examined 
each. The lawyer for the defence ex- 
amined none; he accepted them all. 
The hard-faced audience began to 
glance at him impatiently. The feel- 
ing was against the prisoner, yet 
they wished to see some fight made 
for him; they wanted a play of 
swords. There was no excitement 
in looking at a giant who sat still in 
his chair. 
The District Attorney opened the 
case for the People. He told with 
few words the story of the murder. 
The prisoner had worked on the farm 
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of one Amos Berry in the autumn 
before, in 1845. On this farm was an 
Irishman, Shaughnessy by name. He 
amused himself by worrying the boy, 
and the boy came to hate him. He 
kept out of his way, yet the older 
man continued to worry him. On 
the 28th of October the boy was to 
drive a wagon of hay to the next 
farm. At the gate of the barn-yard 
he met Shaughnessy with Berry and 
two other men. The boy asked Berry 
to open the gate, and Berry was 
about to do it when Shaughnessy 
spoke. The boy was lazy he said — let 
him get down and open the gate him- 
self. Berry hesitated, laughing at 
Shaughnessy, and the Irishman 
caught the pitchfork which the lad 
held and pricked him with it and 
ordered him to get down. The lad 

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THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

sprang forward, and, snatching back 
the pitchfork, flew at the Irishman 
and ran one of the prongs into his 
skull. The man died in an hour. The 
boy had been thrown into jail and 
had lain there nine months awaiting 
trial. This was the story. 

By now it was the dinner hour- 
twelve o'clock. The court adjourned 
and the Judge and the lawyers went 
across the street to the tavern, a 
two-story house with long verandas; 
the audience scattered to be fed, 
many dining on the grass from 
lunches brought with them, for a 
murder trial is a gala day in the 
backwoods, and people make long 
journeys to see the show. 

One lawyer was missing at the tav- 
ern. The Judge and the attorneys 
wondered where he was, for though 

[18] 



THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

this was not the eighth circuit, where 
Abraham Lincoln practised, yet his 
name was known here. Lawyers of 
the eighth circuit had talked about 
his gift of story telling; these men 
wanted to hear him tell stories. But 
the big man had disappeared and no- 
body had been interested enough to 
notice as he passed down the shady 
street with a very little, faded woman 
in shabby clothes; a woman who had 
sat in a dark corner of the court- 
room crying silently, who had stolen 
forward and spoken a timid word to 
Lincoln. With her he turned into one 
of the poorest houses of the town 
and had dinner with her and her 
cousin, the carpenter, and his fam- 

iiy. 

"That's the prisoner's mother," a 
woman whispered when, an hour 
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later, court opened again, and the 
defendant's lawyer came up the steps 
with the forlorn little woman and 
seated her very carefully before he 
went forward to his place. 

The District Attorney, in his shirt 
sleeves, in a chair tipped against the 
wall, called and examined witnesses. 
Proof was made of the location; the 
place was described; eye-witnesses 
testified to the details of the crime. 
There appeared to be no possible 
doubt of the criminal's guilt. 

The lad sat huddled, colorless from 
his months in jail, sunk now in an 
apathy — a murderer at fifteen. Men 
on the jury who had hardy, honest 
boys of their own at home frowned 
at him, and more than one, it may 
be, considered that a monster of this 
sort would be well removed. Back in 

[20] 



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her dark corner the shabby woman 
sat quiet. 

The sultry afternoon wore on. Out- 
side the open windows a puff of wind 
moved branches of trees now and 
then, but hardly a breath came in- 
side; it was hot, wearisome, but yet 
the crowd stayed. These were people 
who had no theatres; it was a play 
to listen to the District Attorney 
drawing from one witness after an- 
other the record of humiliation and 
rage, culminating in murder. It was 
excitement to watch the yellow- 
haired child on trial for his life; it 
was an added thrill for those who 
knew the significance of her pres- 
ence, to turn and stare at the thin 
woman cowering in her seat, shaking 
with that continual repressed crying. 
All this was too good to lose, so the 

[21] 



THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

crowd stayed. Ignorant people are 
probably not wilfully cruel; prob- 
ably they like to watch suffering as 
a small boy watches the animal he 
tortures — from curiosity, without a 
sense of its reality. The poor are no- 
toriously kind to each other, yet it 
is the poor, the masses, who throng 
the murder trials and executions. 
The afternoon wore on. The Dis- 
trict Attorney's nasal voice rose and 
fell examining witnesses. But the big 
lawyer sitting there did not satisfy 
people. He did not cross-examine one 
witness, he did not make one objec- 
tion even to statements very damag- 
ing to his client. He scrutinized the 
Judge and the jury. One might have 
said that he was studying the char- 
acter of each man; till at length the 
afternoon had worn to an end, and 

[22] 



THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

the District Attorney had examined 
the last witness and had risen and 
said: "The People rest." That side of 
the case was finished, and court ad- 
journed for supper, to reopen at 7.30 
in the evening. 

Before the hour the audience had 
gathered. It was commonly said that 
the boy was doomed; no lawyer, even 
a "smart" man, could get him off 
after such testimony, and the cur- 
rent opinion was that the big hulk- 
ing fellow could not be a good law- 
yer or he would have put a spoke in 
the wheel for his client before this. 
The sentiment ran in favor of con- 
demnation; to have killed a man at 
fifteen showed depravity which was 
best put out of the way. Stern, nar- 
row — the hard-living men and women 
of the backwoods set their thin lips 

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into this sentence; yet down inside 
each one beat a heart capable of gen- 
erous warmth if only the way to it 
were found, if a finger with a sure 
touch might be laid on the sealed 
gentleness. 

Court opened. Not a seat was 
empty. The small woman in her worn 
calico dress sat forward this time, 
close to the bar. A few feet separated 
her from her son. The lawyers took 
their places. The Sheriff had brought 
in the criminal. The Judge entered. 
And then Abraham Lincoln stalked 
slowly up through the silent benches, 
and paused as he came to the prisoner. 
He laid a big hand on the thin shoul- 
der, and the lad started nervously. 
Lincoln bent from his great height. 

"Don't you be scared, sonny," he 
said quietly, but yet everyone heard 

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every word. "I'm going to pull you 
out of this hole. Try to be plucky for 
your mother's sake." 

And the boy lifted his blue, young 
eyes for the first time and glanced 
over to the shabby woman, and she 
met his look with a difficult smile, 
and he tried to smile back. The au- 
dience saw the effort of each for the 
other; the Judge saw it; and the jury 
— and Lincoln's keen eyes, watching 
ever under the heavy brows, caught 
a spasm of pity in more than one face. 
He took off his coat and folded it on 
the back of his chair and stood in his 
shirt sleeves. He stood, a man of the 
people in look and manner; a com- 
fortable sense pervaded the specta- 
tors that what he was going to say 
they were going to understand. The 
room was still. 

[25] 



THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

"Gentlemen of the Jury," began 
Abraham Lincoln, standing in his 
shirt sleeves before the court, "I am 
going to try this case in a manner 
not customary in courts. I am not 
going to venture to cross the tracks 
of the gentleman who has tried it for 
the prosecution. I shall not call wit- 
nesses; the little prisoner over there 
is all the witness I want. I shall not 
argue; I shall beseech you to make 
the argument for yourselves. All I'm 
going to do is to tell you a story and 
show you how it connects with this 
case, and then leave the case in your 
hands." 

There was a stir through the court- 
room. The voice, rasping, unpleasant 
at first, went on: 

"You, Jim Beck — you, Jack Arm- 
strong " 

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THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

People jumped; these were the 
names of neighbors and friends which 
this stranger used. His huge knotted 
forefinger singled out two in the 
jury. 

"You two can remember — yes, and 
you as well, Luke Green — fifteen 
years back, in 1831, when a long, lank 
fellow in God-forsaken clothes came 
into this country from Indiana. His 
appearance, I dare to say, was so 
striking that those who saw him 
haven't forgotten him. He was 
dressed in blue homespun jeans. His 
feet were in rawhide boots, and the 
breeches were stuffed into the tops of 
them most of the time. He had a soft 
hat which had started life as black, 
but had sunburned till it was a com- 
bine of colors. Gentlemen of the Jury, 
I think some of you will remember 
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THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

those clothes and that young man. 
His name was Abraham Lincoln." 

The gaunt speaker paused and 
pushed up his sleeves a bit, and the 
jurymen saw the hairy wrists and the 
muscles of hand and forearm. Yes, 
they remembered the young giant 
who had been champion in every- 
thing that meant physical strength. 
They sat tense. 

"The better part of a man's life 
consists of his friendships," the strong 
voice went on, and the eyes softened 
as if looking back over a long road 
travelled. "There are good friends to 
be found in these parts; that young 
fellow in blue jeans had a few. It is 
about a family who befriended him 
that I am going to tell you. The boy 
Abraham Lincoln left his father, who 
was, as all know, a man in the hum- 
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blest walk of life, and at twenty-two 
he undertook to shift for himself. 
There were pretty pinching times 
along then, and Abraham could not 
always get work. One fall afternoon, 
when he had been walking miles on 
a journey westward to look for a 
chance, it grew late, and he realized 
suddenly that unless he should run 
across a house he would have to 
sleep out. With that he heard an 
axe ring and came upon a cabin. It 
was a poor cabin even as settlers' 
cabins go. There was cloth over the 
windows instead of glass; there was 
only one room, and a little window 
above which told of a loft. Abraham 
strode on to the cabin hopefully. The 
owner, a strong fellow with yellow 
hair, came up, axe in hand, and of 
him the young man asked shelter." 

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THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

Again the voice paused and a smile 
flashed which told of a pleasant 
memory. 

"Gentlemen of the Jury, no king 
ever met a fellow-monarch with a 
finer welcome. Everything he had, 
the wood-chopper told Abraham, was 
his. The man brought the tired boy 
inside. The door was only five feet 
high and the young fellow had to 
stoop some to get in. Two children 
of five or six were playing, and a lit- 
tle woman was singing the baby to 
sleep by the fire. The visitor climbed 
up a ladder to the loft after supper. 

"He crawled down next morning, 
and when he had done a few chores 
to help, he bethought himself to take 
advice from the wood-chopper. He 
asked if there were jobs to be got. 
The man said yes; if he could chop 

[30] 



THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

and split rails there was enough to 
do. Now Abraham had had an axe 
put into his hands at eight years, 
and had dropped it since only long 
enough to eat meals. 'I can do that/ 
he said. 

"'Do you like to work?' the woods- 
man asked. 

"Abraham had to tell him that he 
wasn't a hand to pitch into work like 
killing snakes, but yet — well, the out- 
come of it was that he stayed and 
proved that he could do a man's job." 

A whispered word ran from one to 
another on the benches — they began 
to remember now the youngster who 
could outlift, outwork and outwrestle 
any man in the county. The big law- 
yer saw, and a gleam of gratification 
flashed; he was proud always of his 
physical strength. He went on: 

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THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

"For five weeks Abraham lived in 
the cabin. The family character be- 
came as familiar to him as his own. 
He chopped with the father, did 
housework with the mother, and ten- 
ded Sonny, the baby, many a time. 
To this day the man has a clear 
memory of that golden-haired baby 
laughing as the big lad rolled him 
about the uneven floor. He came to 
know the stock, root and branch, and 
can vouch for it. 

"When he went away they refused 
to take money. No part of his life has 
ever been more light-hearted or hap- 
pier. Does anybody here think that 
any sacrifice which Abraham Lin- 
coln could make in after life would 
be too great to show his gratitude to 
those people ?" 

He shot the question at the jury, 

[32] 



THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 

at the Judge, and, turning, brought 
the crowded court-room into its 
range. A dramatic silence answered. 
The tiny woman's dim eyes stared 
at him, dilated. The boy's bright, 
sunken head had lifted a little and 
his thin fingers had caught at a chair 
at arm's length, and clutched it. The 
lawyer picked up his coat from where 
he had laid it, and, while every eye 
in the court-room watched him, he 
fumbled in a pocket, unhurried, and 
brought out a bit of letter-paper. 
Holding it, he spoke again: 

"The young man who had come 
under so large a weight of obligation 
prospered in later life. By hard work, 
by good fortune, by the blessing of 
God, he made for himself a certain 
place in the community. As much as 
might be, he has — I have — kept in 

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touch with those old friends, yet in 
the stress of a very busy life I have 
not of late years heard from them. 
Till last Monday morning this" — 
he held up the letter — "this came to 
me in Springfield. It is a letter from 
the mother who sat by the fire in that 
humble cabin and gave a greeting to 
the wandering, obscure youth which 
Abraham Lincoln, please God, will 
not forget — not in this world, not 
when the hand of death has set his 
soul free of another. The woodsman 
died years ago, the two older children 
followed him. The mother who sang 
to her baby that afternoon" — he 
swept about and his long arm and 
knotted finger pointed, as he towered 
above the court-room, to the meek, 
small woman shrinking on the front 
seat — "the mother is there." 

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The arm dropped; his luminous eyes 
shone on the boy criminal's drooping 
golden head; in the court-room there 
was no one who did not hear each 
low syllable of the sentence which 
followed. 

"The baby is the prisoner at the 
bar." 

In the hot crowded place one caught 
a gasp from back by the door; one 
heard a woman's dress rustle, and a 
man clear his throat — and that was 
all. 

There was silence, and the counsel 
for the defence let it alone to do his 
work. From the figure which loomed 
above the rude company virtue went 
out and worked a magic. The silence 
which stretched from the falling of 
Lincoln's voice; which he let stretch 
on — and on; which he held to its in- 

[35] 



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sistent witchcraft when every soul 
in the court-room began to feel it as 
personally harrassing; this long si- 
lence shaped the minds before him as 
words could not. Lincoln held the 
throng facing their own thoughts, 
facing the story he had told, till all 
over the room men and women were 
shuffling, sighing, distressed with the 
push and the ferment of that si- 
lence. 

At the crucial moment the frayed 
ends of the nerves of the audience 
were gathered up as the driver of a 
four-in-hand gathers up the reins of 
his fractious horses. The voice of the 
defendant's lawyer sounded over the 
throng. 

"Many times, as I have lain wake- 
ful in the night," he spoke as if re- 
flecting aloud, "many times I have 
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THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED 
remembered those weeks of unfail- 
ing kindness from those poor people, 
and have prayed God to give me a 
chance to show my gratefulness. 
When the letter came last Monday 
calling for help, I knew that God 
had answered. An answer to prayer 
comes sometimes with a demand for 
sacrifice. It was so. The culminating 
moment of years of ambition for me 
was to have been to-night. I was to 
have made to-night a speech which 
bore, it is likely, success or failure 
in a contest. I lay that ambition, 
that failure, if the event so prove it, 
gladly on the altar of this boy's safety. 
It is for you"— his strong glance 
swept the jury— "to give him that 
safety. Gentlemen of the Jury, I said 
when I began that I should try this 
case in a manner not customary. I 
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said I had no argument to set be- 
fore you. I believe, as you are all 
men with human hearts, as some of 
you are fathers with little fellows of 
your own at home — I believe that 
you need no argument. I have told 
the story; you know the stock of 
which the lad comes; you know that 
at an age when his hands should 
have held school-books or fishing- 
rod, they held — because he was work- 
ing for his mother — the man's tool 
which was his undoing; you know 
how the child was goaded by a 
grown man till in desperation he 
used that tool at hand. You know 
these things as well as I do. All I 
ask is that you deal with the little 
fellow as you would have other men 
deal in such a case with those little 
fellows at home. I trust his life to 
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that test. Gentlemen of the Jury, I 
rest my case." 

And Abraham Lincoln sat down. 

A little later, when the time came, 
the jury filed out and crossed to a 
room in the hotel opposite. The boy 
stayed. Some of the lawyers went to 
the hotel bar-room, some stood about 
on the ground under the trees; but 
many stayed in the court-room, and 
all were waiting, watching for a 
sound from the men shut up across 
the way. Then, half an hour had 
passed, and there was a bustle, and 
people who had gone out crowded 
back. The worn small woman in the 
front row clasped her thin hands 
tight together. 

The jury filed in and sat down on 
the shaky benches, and answered as 
their names were called, and rose and 
stood. 

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"Gentlemen of the Jury," the 
clerk's voice spoke monotonously, 
"have you agreed upon a verdict?" 

"We have," the foreman an- 
swered firmly, woodenly, and men 
and women thrilled at the conven- 
tional two syllables. They meant life 
or death, those two syllables. 

"What is your verdict, guilty or 
not guilty?" 

For a second, perhaps, no one 
breathed in all that packed mass. 
The small woman glared palely at 
the foreman; every eye watched 
him. Did he hesitate? Only the boy, 
sitting with his golden head down, 
seemed not to listen. 

"Not guilty," said the foreman. 

With that there was pandemoni- 
um. Men shouted, stamped, waved, 
tossed up their hats; women sobbed; 
one or two screamed with wild joy. 

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Abraham Lincoln saw the slim body 
of the prisoner fall forward; with 
two strides he had caught him up 
in his great arms, and, lifting him 
like a baby, passed him across the 
bar into the arms, into the lap, of 
the woman who caught him, rocked 
him, kissed him. They all saw that, 
and with an instinctive, unthinking 
sympathy the whole room surged to- 
ward her; but Lincoln stood guard 
and pushed off the crowd. 

"The boy's fainted," he said loudly. 
"Give him air." And then, with a 
smile that beamed over each one of 
them there, "She's got her baby — 
it's all right, friends. But somebody 
bring a drink of water for Sonny." 

The American, holding a cigar that 
had gone out, was silent. The old 

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man spoke again, as if vindicating 
himself, as if answering objections 
from the other. 

"Of course such a thing could not 
happen to-day," he said. "It could 
not have happened then in eastern 
courts. Only a Lincoln could have 
carried it off anywhere, it may be. 
But he knew his audience and the 
jury, and his genius measured the 
character of the Judge. It happened. 
It is a fact." 

The American drew a long breath. 
"I have not doubted you, sir," he 
said. "I could not speak because — 
because your story touched me. Lin- 
coln is our hero. It goes deep to hear 
of a thing like that. He hesitated and 
glanced curiously at the old man. 
"May I ask how you came by the 
story? You told it with a touch of— 
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intimacy — almost as if you had been 
there. Is it possible that you were 
in that court-room?" 

The bright, dark eyes of the very 
old man flashed hawklike as he 
turned his aquiline, keen face to- 
ward the questioner; he smiled with 
an odd expression, only partly as if 
at the stalwart, up-to-date American 
before him, more as if smiling back 
half a century to faces long ago dust. 

"I was the Judge," he said. 



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